


I Almost Do

by 80slieberher



Series: loving him was red [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Ex Lovers, M/M, after rain comes a rainbow boys, happy ending not to this but, here’s this, no it doesn’t get sadder than this, yes it’s based on the taylor swift song, yes it’s sad, yes there will be more parts, yknow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 14:25:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15245328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/80slieberher/pseuds/80slieberher
Summary: I wish I could tell you, and I hope you know that every time I don’t, I almost do.-Stan and Bill broke up six months ago because of long distance. Stan can’t get over it.





	I Almost Do

**Author's Note:**

> beauty and the beast au is coming along good but have this lil thing in the meantime ;) come say hi on tumblr @stanheartsbill

Stan groaned the minute he walked into his empty apartment. It was nearly ten o’clock, and his late classes were really beginning to kick his ass, but he knew he had no choice. His - paid, thankfully - internship at the local bank was 9 to 5, and if he wanted to keep that, he needed to keep going to school, only a few hours left in the evening for that.

It didn’t help that campus felt like it was across fucking Atlanta, the bank even still a little out of the way from his apartment, but this was the only place he could afford, and the thought of rooming with a stranger absolutely repulsed him. 

So he just rolled with it, something someone very special had taught him to do. Someone he tried not to think about too much, not that it didn’t happen anyway. 

 

Stan’s stomach grumbled, but his eyelids felt even heavier, and he couldn’t be stopped on his way to his bed to grab anything from the fridge. He really, truly just wanted to sleep. 

Getting into his room, his put his backpack on his desk chair and quickly got out fresh clothes to sleep in, meticulously putting the ones he changed from into his hamper before pulling down the covers on his bed and making sure all of his devices were plugged in. 

He nodded and climbed into bed, closing his eyes and revelling in how nice it felt to do that, waiting for sleep to overtake him. 

It didn’t. 

His mind wandered to his day, and how the guy that sat next to him in his lecture just forty five minutes earlier looked strangely like- 

He refused to even think the name. He didn’t know if he could bear it. 

_ Bill _ , his brain betrayed him, forcing him to imagine a tall, built frame, a perfect, friendly smile, freckles dotting across a button nose, and beautiful, bright blue eyes, red-brown hair being swept from them with a chuckle. Bill Denbrough, he knew, it was always Bill Denbrough that plagued his late night thoughts. 

He could see it now: Bill, still up, probably tired from a long, hard week, sitting in his loft, in that ugly green chair with a notebook pressed into his lap and thin-rimmed glasses sitting on the tip of his nose as he frantically scribbled down words. Maybe he would look up, look out the big window the chair was in front of and onto the bustling city of London - even at this time of night. Maybe he was writing notes on a character, maybe a character with thick, curly hair and wide hazel eyes, and a nose that took up too much of his face, and lips that Bill missed putting his own on- 

There was no way Bill couldn’t think about Stan, Stan bet on it. With the amount that Stan thought about Bill, there was just no way. 

He looked to his phone, laying plugged in on his nightstand. Sitting up for the moment, he grabbed it and checked the time. 10:14. That meant it was 2 in the morning for Bill; Stan calculated the time difference in his head often, though they’d split months ago. He still liked to know what time it was where Bill was, imagine what he was doing, make up horrible scenarios in his head about Bill catching some ridiculously early flight to Atlanta and having a sliver of hope it was true every time someone knocked on his door. It never was. 

He thought about calling. He thought so fucking hard about calling, he thought his head might explode. He wanted to, he wanted to  _ so _ badly, and he almost did. It took everything he had to force himself to close the Phone app, leering away from Contacts and Messages. 

_ It’s 2am in London _ , Stan reminded himself,  _ you might wake him. You can’t call him _ . 

He was used to hearing the same justifications, and he knew he was right. Bill was in London, so, so far away - 4,204 miles. Stan had it memorized. 

And still, Stan wanted to run. He wanted to run to Bill like they ran off the quarry cliff, jump back into the murky, cold waters of long distance all over again. 

But he was afraid. The distance was colder than the quarry, it was freezing, especially so without warm arms to wrap around him, and it was darker than the quarry ever had been, much darker now that he’d plunged in once before and come out scathed by teeth of whatever creatures lived in it. They were out to get him, they were out to get Bill: sleep, time to talk, classes, work. Stan could see them biting at Bill’s feet and legs and arms and torso until he came out bleeding, damaged, and calling for Stan to get out, too. 

Stan wasn’t sure he ever did. 

But, god, Stan wanted to run to him. He wanted to run to him more than anything in the world, and as his brain finally fogged until his thoughts were bearly coherent, he hoped Bill knew that every time he didn’t, he almost did. 

 

Loud ringing yanked Stan from sleep just as it faded, startling him awake with a jolt. His heart beat fast in his chest thanks to the scare, and he wondered who that he knew of would call him this late. All of his friends knew Stan preferred to be in bed by ten, no one usually called after that. He checked his phone. 

_ Missed call from Bill Denbrough _ .

He swallowed, but thought anxiously of the little red bubble appearing at the top of his phone screen when he opened it the next day and couldn’t bear it. He didn’t know if he would have the strength not to call back the next morning (though he always did), so he unlocked his phone and clicked the Phone app, effectively ridding the red bubble from the app. 

He couldn’t make himself close it, though. He couldn’t just go back to sleep. 

He scrolled through his pages of missed calls - he hardly ever deleted them, instead liking to keep track of when and who called him. There were many ‘Bill Denbrough’s, all in red, not a single one picked up. 

He device  _ Dinged! _ loud again in his hands, and he turned it to vibrate as he switched to messages, though the ‘Bill Denbrough’ that had appeared was clue enough of what the text would say. It was nearly the same thing every time. 

_ Hey Stan, I’m sorry if I woke you, I forgot the difference again _ . Stan knew he was referring to their differences in time, which Stan  _ never _ forgot, but Bill always did.  _ I was just wondering how you’re doing again. Eddie told me well the last time I spoke to him; congrats on the internship again. Call me sometime. _

Stan knew he would not call Bill anytime soon. No matter how much he wanted to, he didn’t know if he could ever say hello to Bill Denbrough again without risking another goodbye. He was afraid of the sheer heartbreak of that, he couldn’t do it a second time, he knew. Bill couldn’t change his mind. Bill probably thought he’d moved on by now, maybe even that he hated him, but Stan could never do that, as for the first thing, he didn’t know if he could ever do that either. It didn’t feel like he could. It hadn’t felt like he could for the past six months. 

His sleep ruined now, he got up from his bed and went to his desk, where his home laptop rested. He opened it, the screen glowing blue in the dark room, illuminating his face. 

He typed in the name of Bill’s university and Atlanta, google telling him that there was 4,204 miles between them, but he’d already known that. He scrolled through the other options, seeing eight and nine hour and ten hour flight recommendations - eight hours and ten minutes being the optimum time to get from himself to Bill. That was all. Bill was only eight hours and an expensive plane ticket away. 

His eye caught the time at the bottom right of his screen. 11:11. That meant it was 4:11 for Bill. 

Stan didn’t let himself make a wish.

Stan wondered if Bill had wished for him five hours prior, 6:11 Stan’s time; he was always superstitious. 

He googled Bill’s campus separately, too, scrolling through pictures, almost looking for the red-head in the crowds of students, maybe with a beanie on, probably in a signature flannel shirt. His game of Where’s William ended fruitlessly. 

And then he went to Bill’s instagram, suddenly in search of pictures of him, though he rarely let himself onto the site - knowing this is all he would do. He had to delete the app, it had gotten so bad. He needed to see Bill, make sure he was doing alright, check on him, and take inventory of his features to make sure they were the same as they were six months before. 

He swore that was all he was doing ten minutes before he was thirty posts deep into the man’s profile, clicking through and scrolling, his eyes drawn to every one with him in it. 

The most recent one was from the summer before, when they had gone home to Derry together for the three months that they had. Stan remembered trading off driving with Bill, the trip from Georgia taking them twice as long as they stopped more than they needed to just for Stan to catalog the birds in different areas. That summer was the preamble to their mess, the calm before the storm. That summer, Stan had no idea that Bill planned on transferring to a university  _ England _ for his third and fourth years. The yelling that resulted when he finally found out from Richie still rang in his ears. 

_ This is why I didn’t want to tell you! We’ve been together for four years, and you don’t think we could last two apart! An ocean in between us won’t make me stop fucking loving you, Stan, what will it take for you to believe me? _

Yet, in the end, it had been Bill to leave. It hurt Stan so much worse than he’d like to admit to remember. 

They were kissing in the photo. Stan recalled that Bill was drunk, and had Stan pulled into his lap, legs wrapped around his waist as he sat on the rocks overlooking the quarry. He remembered Bev had snapped the photo, the flash making both men squeeze their eyes closed, both of them smiling into the other. He could still feel the ghost of Bill’s warm hands on his hips if he tried.

_ Best night ever, but only because of you _ , Bill had captioned it. Stan wished he could erase it, and almost untagged himself from it, but couldn’t bring himself to. He didn’t want to. 

Stan was aware that he was crying, hot tears rolling down his cheeks and onto his legs, wetting the shorts he wore to bed in the spring. There was only five weeks left until summer. Stan wondered if Bill would come home to Derry. He wanted him to, but simultaneously didn’t know if he would be able to bear it. Maybe he should just not to go home for the summer. 

He checked the time again, this time on his phone. 11:24.

It was taking every fucking ounce of self control Stan had not to call Bill, not to call and tell him everything he’d thought for the past six months. Tell Bill he bearly fucking slept, busied himself with work and class so that he wouldn’t have any spare time to fucking think like this, tell Bill he missed him and he loved him and he wanted to see him and hear his voice more than anything. 

He didn’t. 

But he almost did. 

He went back to the pages of flights, teasing himself, letting his mouse hover over the  _ purchase  _ button. It would be so easy, probably deplete some of his savings, but it would be worth it. He could run to Bill. 

He made it worse, clicking and entering his information, setting the date. The terrible plan was almost cemented in his mind, and he could see it now: Spending eight hours on a plane stewing in his excitement to see Bill, rushing off at the airport and going straight to Bill’s flat, knocking fast on the door in his anticipation. Bill would open, and maybe he would ask Stan what the fuck he was doing there, but his voice would break and there would be tears in his eyes like the ones rolling down Stan’s cheeks. Stan would jump into his arms, and Bill would whisper that he was sorry for the millionth time, and Stan would hold his hair and breathe the smell he missed so much, the smell of musky oranges and the cigarettes he fucking hated, the smell of  _ Bill _ , and tell him it was okay, and Bill would kiss him and they would talk. They would talk and tell each other how much they loved each other like they did on their very last phone call, but instead of deciding to be apart, they would decide to stick it out. They would decide they were both wrong, and come up with ways that they would fix things. They would try again.

That’s how the fantasies always went. 

Stan exited the page, closed his laptop, and went back to his bed. 

He sat and pondered if it were even for the better that he and Bill ever get back together, even if he did go to England. Being physically together was the easy part. Being physically together didn’t make talking impossible, it didn’t make staying up late just to hear the other’s voice a big deal, it didn’t end in fights when Stan couldn’t call because of pure exhaustion for weeks on end in busy work seasons, it didn’t end in bitterly ignoring each other for days when Bill was having a creative burst. Being physically together was all they had known, Stan tenderly kissing Bill goodnight as he worked fervently on a new story, Bill opening his arms in bed for Stan to fall into the moment he got home from a long day. 

Long distance made a horrible mess of things, and Stan knew, even if he went to see Bill in London, he couldn’t stay there forever. He couldn’t drop everything to go be with Bill, he just  _ couldn’t. _

But he almost wanted to. 

They were better off this way. He knew they were. He had no one to blame but himself for his lack of sleep now, not Bill missing him and wanting to hear his voice. They were both better off this way. 

He wiped another tear from his eye, willing them to stop, thinking about the dream he’d been pulled from as Bill called. Bill’s fingers on his cheek had felt so real, the breath fanning onto his lips from Bill’s words was warm and familiar. 

“Do you want to start again with me?” He’d asked,  and Stan’s eyes fluttered closed just to see it in more detail. 

Because Stan almost did. 

Stan looked out the window to the left of his bed. He bet that Bill was still up, still tired from a long, hard week. He thought about Bill sitting in that chair by the window, looking out at the city, and Stan hoped that sometimes Bill wondered about him. 


End file.
